


i've got a singular impression things are moving too fast,

by civilorange



Category: His Dark Materials - Philip Pullman, Pocket Monsters | Pokemon - All Media Types, Supergirl (TV 2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Daemons, Alternate Universe - Pokemon Fusion, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, F/F, F/M, Fluff and Angst, Gen, but here it is anyway, no one asked for, the daemon and pokemon and supercat fusion
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2018-08-08 16:32:30
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,918
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7765054
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/civilorange/pseuds/civilorange
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kara beams, and your heart does that idiotic thing it does—it flutters—and you can’t stop the half smile that curls your own lips. You’re an old fool, and sometimes it feels like there’s nothing you can do about it. This infatuation had been easy to ignore before Supergirl—before you traced all those barely invisible lines that connected utterly lovable Kara Danvers, to entirely desirable Supergirl.</p><p>or, the one where they have daemons, and they're also pokemon.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. did i just hear an alarm start ringing? ( cat )

**Author's Note:**

  * For [randomthingsthatilike123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/randomthingsthatilike123/gifts).



> This idea—kind of got out of hand. Like, pretty quickly. I don’t even know what’s happening, but its happening. This is just one of a few AU ideas that are being brainstormed with my enabler—I blame you Gabby. So, you don’t really have to be too knowledgeable about His Dark Materials, or even really Pokémon. The general gist? Daemons are pokémon that represent a person’s soul, and they exist as their own individuals—thought they are intimately tethered to their bondmate.

“ _Here comes trouble_ ,” the ninetales bemoans, a little lackluster because you _know_ he doesn’t mean it.

You know to expect Kara’s daemon a handful of seconds before her—the growlithe comes bounding into the office with all the poorly harnessed energy of a pup. The news floor has been dark for the better part of an hour, and you’re surprised it’s taken this long for her to relocate to your couch to finish all her work. The worst part about giving her a promotion—and subsequently her own office—is that you hardly see her anymore. She still greets you with a smile in the morning, your latte in hard, but she always has her own, and acts like she’d just happened to pick yours up while she was there. You fired _one_ of her lacking replacements for forgetting your coffee— _just one_ —you hardly think you should be politely reprimanded until the end of days with Kara’s sunny smile, and _knowing_ look.

You can barely see the flash of burnt orange and cream fur run past until the _oof_ in your mind let’s you know your daemon has been promptly jumped on. You feel it in your chest—the connection you have with Meraviglia, that little spear of warmth that is the proof behind all the scowls—your daemon is a softy when it comes to Kara’s bond mate.

You watch how the pale tail that had coiled around your ankle—as it usually does—tightens for a moment, before retreating and swatting at the playfully rumbling canine on top of him. “ _Truly_?” He rumbles, scoffing, all nine of his tails bristling—but you note, as does Saoviz, that he doesn’t move.

“Sorry, miss Grant,” Kara comes chasing in after, balancing too many papers while clicking her tongue against her teeth, obviously some kind of signal for Saoviz—her growlithe—to cease and desist. “ _Sao_ , can you _not_? I can’t bring you anywhere.” The canine hardly seems apologetic if the wide grin on his muzzle is any indication—he rolls over once more, tucking his thick skull under Meraviglia’s chin, before bouncing off to sit at Kara’s side.

“An insufferable pair, the lot of you,” you drawl, eyebrow arched.

Kara smiles that slightly lopsided grin of hers that makes you scowl—well, you only scowl because it makes your heart flutter, and you just _hate_ fluttering. She’s stacking her papers on the table, and swiping them out of the air when Saoviz whacks them with his tail, before he’s being relegated to laying on the floor—put there by Kara’s flat encased foot comically pressing against his head.

“ _At least she knows how to put the mutt in his place_ ,” Meraviglia says gleefully, his own muzzle turning into a grin when the growlithe starts useless struggles. You shoot him a disparaging glare, because really, no encouragement is needed on either end of the equation.

“How do the man-boys fair?” You’d elected to write yourself out of the Sports director’s meeting, because you could only stomach a meeting catered by TGiFridays by accident—you couldn’t _knowingly_ make yourself walk into that situation.

So, you’d sent Kara in your stead.

She isn’t your assistant anymore, but it didn’t take media royalty to know that Kara was everyone’s first stop when dealing with you—she has made herself an indispensable gatekeeper in the two years she was your assistant, and apparently the promotion didn’t change that. If you trusted anyone to be an extension of your authority, you supposed Kara was the best option.

“They’re—fairing?” Kara says haltingly, her smile dimming only because it’s turned—you hate using this word, even in your own mind— _cute_. Meraviglia chuffs softly at your train of thought, and you’re thinking that maybe pressing one’s daemon into the floor with a foot is a good idea.

“Please, sound more unsure.” It isn’t as snappish as you’d like, and when Kara brightens, you feel the need to curb that happiness, “Did anything get accomplished?” She opens her mouth to answers, “Other than a competition to see how many mozzarella sticks one can shove in their orifice.” She closes said orifice, “I hear congratulations are in order, champ.”

Saoviz is peering at you from behind the low coffee table, blistering blue eyes the same color of his bond mate are frosty—you’ve never come across a growlithe with _blue eyes_ , but it isn’t unheard of. Just…unusual.

“We also scratched out the schedule for March Madness, and I may have—,” she is wringing her hands together, until one moves away and curls into Saoviz’ fur. “I may have head hunted Steve Lombard.”

Leaning forward, you fix her with a stare, “Steve Lombard—the loudest, brashest mid-life crisis that that Planet has to offer.” You pause, just so Kara can really get the gravitas you’re going for, “ _That_ Steve Lombard?” The ninetales at your side bristles just a little more, remembering the loud man and his insufferable machamp.

“Yes?”

“And how, may I ask, did you _head hunt_ him?”

“Well—it’s a long story?” There’s a lot of question marks being added to the end of sentences, but thankfully she continues without prompting this time, “By _head hunt_ , I mean took his resume when he dropped it off and demanded to see you—I told him that you don’t take walk ins, but—well, Miss Grant, he has the experience the sports department needs.”

Leaning back in your chair, you let her linger in that unsure headspace—you’d already talked with Perry White about why the blustering fool had left him, and really it was all clashing male egos. Perry _had_ been a little morose about losing his sports anchor over something as juvenile as lost bets. You’d planned on giving him a _probationary_ period, but leave it to Kara to be ahead of your carefully crafted plans.

Kara’s daemon is glowering, and she’s blinking quickly, and you didn’t mean to leave her hanging for— _so_ long.

“ _Oh, Catherine,_ ” Meraviglia sighs, eight of nine tails flicking through the air, the last wrapped back around your ankle. “ _The girl looks like she’s about to cry,_ ”

The growlithe nods in agreement, though he doesn’t say anything.

“You know, Mera, I’m not appreciating this mood you’ve been in.” Exhaling, and grabbing a red pen, you begin scribbling on the closest article to you, marking out _every_ adverb that you see. “I already planned to bring Mr. Lombard in for a tentative interview, have Lauren put it into my schedule—next week, maybe the week after.”

Kara _beams_ , and your heart does that idiotic thing it does—it _flutters_ —and you can’t stop the half smile that curls your own lips. You’re an old fool, and sometimes it feels like there’s nothing you can do about it. This _infatuation_ had been easy to ignore before Supergirl—before you traced all those barely invisible lines that connected utterly lovable Kara Danvers, to entirely desirable Supergirl.

Meraviglia lets you pretend, the damned daemon just as hopeless as you when it comes down to it—more so, because he doesn’t have those niggling little worries like you. His eyes are bright red and feverish when your heart hammers you both awake—his furred body wrapped around your own because your dreams had snared you both like rabbits in a trap. Dreams of blue, _blue_ eyes, and a molten heat building and spilling—

Shaking yourself out of the thought when you hear the lowest rumble from your bond mate’s chest. No need to bring yourself down that path, not right now.

You can still remember how Kara had felt under your hands—the super suit and cape snagged by your fingers as you’d hugged the young hero at the end of the world, but it was unquestionably Kara. How she _gave_ under your hold, curling into you without question—she’d felt _good_ in your arms, it felt _right_ , which is what made it so dangerous.

Your thoughts are interrupted by the chitter of Kara’s mobile—and she’s hastily, and quietly, talking to someone. You pretend not to notice, not to catch every tenth word— _emergency, downtown_ —and when Kara stands to excuse herself, you wave her away without looking up. She’s apologizing, and gathering papers, and you want to tell her not to bother—to come back when she’s finished saving the city, but she doesn’t trust you with that truth, so you let her walk away.

“ _She wanted to stay_ ,” Saoviz says when his bond mate has turned down the hall toward her office, his blistering blue eyes looking haunting in the soft cream and red of his face. “ _She misses you_.” Because that’s what daemon’s are for—they’re brave when you are scared, they’ll take care of you, even when you can’t take care of yourself.

“She’s just down the hall,” you say, like he means _distance_ , but it’s something else. Because if you accept that Kara is in fact Supergirl—you have to also accept that this fluffy monstrosity isn’t a growlithe. “I see her every morning.” This tornado of chaos that lumbers through the office is actually the strangest thing to happen in quite sometime—you’ve been able to see it in only one photo. James must have gotten them to pose for it.

A photo you didn’t put to print, but rests in your bottom drawer.

Supergirl, floating above an apartment building that had just been ablaze, smoke curling like a promise all around her, the worn amber flickering against the tan of her face. There was something imperious about her posture—maybe even arrogant. Young face set firmly and brow tucked—there was a brooding quality to National City’s superhero, a dark shadow that had been there even before the _Red-K_ incident.

And just to the hero side, was her daemon—opalescent and bright in the dark, a glimmer of dust a visible shine in the air, as if it had just been flicked off the tip of the creatures tail. Wide eyes a drowning shade of blue, flecks of purple just at the pupil, a nearly impossible to see ring of lavender hugging the black—identical to a certain assistant. (Meraviglia had pointed it out—the fox was pretty apt with colors for a canine—but he always did like looking through your eyes.)

One of the reasons that National City’s superhero was global news—at her side was Mew.

The illusive legend had fluttered into the global scene when a girl pulled herself onto the wing of a plane, and shot off like a bullet into the sky.

“Tell her—I’ll still be here working,” you hedge, looking at this not-growlithe with blue, blue eyes with the slightest ring of purple near the pupil, “If she wants to stop by after her—family thing.” Meraviglia purrs in agreement, low and content, and the warmth in your chest is his too—because Saoviz grins wide and bounds off through the office looking for his bond mate.

The silence that exists behind them is a vacuum of thoughts, whirling and tripping around, and you can’t help trying to pluck them free. The worries, the fears, all the things that you keep pressed down in the darkest parts of you. The little pieces that are sharp at the edges because you can’t help pricking yourself with the existence of you—wounds that are bloodless and heart deep that say you shouldn’t have extended the invitation, that you’re _kidding yourself_.

The fox at your side ruffles and moves closer, pressing his side against your legs and his head in your lap. The way you thread fingers through his mane is absent, and you’re already calming down—the slow methodical lull of the vibration from his chest, the weight of him keeping your grounded. You toy with the remote on your desk after sending out a text to rouse the helicopter team—ready to watch your girl save the day, like she always does.

 _Your girl_ —you’re a goner.

“ _Treading dangerous water, Catherine,_ ” your fox sighs.

When aren’t you?


	2. did i see sirens go flying past? ( kara )

You can’t even say how long it’s been happening—since the beginning, you guess.

It isn’t every night, but it’s often enough that you can feel the worry radiating from Sao—the prickle of concern that bunches at the back of his neck, and pulses through you like a phantom pain. He doesn’t do _worry_ , not usually, but for some reason he reserves it for these nights, when you linger unsurely in the air outside the penthouse of National City’s grandest apartment building. He weaves through your cape, silently admonishing you, but never actually trying to _stop_ you. Just lingers close, bristling with worry, and tugging at his own cape with quick paws.

“ _You know how I feel about this_ ,” he says one night, or maybe it’s every night—though not _every_ night, just every night you come _here_.

“I don’t know what the big deal is,” you reply, sighing heavily and refraining from using any super-human abilities to peer past brick and steel to see what the occupants of the penthouse are up to.

“ _You’re seeking her out_ ,” he exhales ears swiveling this way and that as he lifts himself, so that you’re eye to eye—you’ve pressed your faces together in front of a mirror often when you were a child. Giggling in excitement at how _identical_ your eyes are. Blue, and blue, and _purple_ —you know those strange little specks belong to Sao, they’re his mark on you, his claim—that was how the people of Krypton saw it. Zor El’s blonde heathen, and her little floating _kharroup_ —though, you suppose on earth the closest equivalent would be _rat_.

Here, no one wonders about what the connection means—between a person and their daemon.

“Ugh, I’m not _seeking her out_ ,” you mimic his deep timber, the one that he hides when he’s pretending to be _Kara Danvers’s_ daemon; because it _resonates_ , you don’t feel it in your bones like everyone else, but you see how people react when he plucks them from burning buildings or toppling cars. “I’m just—checking on them. See? _Them_ , not _her_ —as in Carter, Cadeau—,” _now_ , you grin slyly at him, and his ears flatten _,_ already not liking where this is going, “— _and_ Meraviglia.”

You aren’t sure if daemon’s are supposed to blush, you don’t even know if it’s _possible_ , but Sao sputters, losing a little altitude, and the stardust flicking off the tip of his tail goes from white and silver, to something almost pink. “ _And why would I care about that—that mongrel_?” He huffs, voice _far_ too high, almost a squeak, and you’re grinning because you _know_ you’re right.

Sao is your second half— _no_ , that isn’t right—because that would somehow hint that he’s separate to you in some way. No, you feel his heart jackhammering away inside his small chest, you feel the tingle at the pads of his paws where he’s snagged your cape in annoyance—you feel his emotions buzz through him like a wind thrown through a street of skyscrapers. Loud, and strong, and only growing stronger. You know he’s feeling caution now, because you’re too tired too—you know he’s worried because your bones ache, and your mind is sluggish—because you only want someone who _cares_ , who’s familiar.

He wants those things too— _so much_ —but maybe he’s the stronger of you.

Maybe his heart can stagger along alone for just a while more.

“You care,” you tell him, absolutely sure, because you know how _your_ heart drums when you see Meraviglia’s bond mate, just as Sao’s speeds up whenever he sees her fox. You’re a pair of idiots, but that knowledge only keeps you away on the nights that you aren’t burning at both ends, that you don’t _long_ for someone that you can’t have.

Sao doesn’t get a chance to answer, because the glass door of the balcony slides open and you both drop twenty feet like you’re somehow going to fool someone that you _weren’t_ there. There’s a silence, and then a long suffering sigh that you can only hear because your ears are pricking for any indication that the ruse was up—Saoviz’s are too, pressed forward, pretending like he hadn’t latched onto your chest in surprise, still sitting in the cradle of your arms.

“ _Does that ever actually work?_ ” You hear, and it lets you relax a little because it’s Meraviglia, and _not_ Cat, but Sao is rapidly shaking his head. You can _feel_ how his heart hammers against yours from where you’re chest to chest, but you’re properly brash when you have the cape on and ascend the twenty feet before he can untangle himself from you.

“Good evening, Mister Grant,” you say, hands on hips and cape billowing properly, “How’re you tonight?” You try to tell yourself that you _aren’t_ trying to impress the fox, but you are.

“ _Oh, I’ve been having a lovely night,_ ” he drawls, all nine of his tails flicking and swishing behind him, paws up on the rail, long graceful muzzle set down on them. Burning crimson eyes stare at you in amusement, and you’re pinned, because even though he radiates heat, there’s always something _cool_ about the fox. “ _Until I saw a flying rodent outside, and thought I might have to call an exterminator_.”

Sao huffs, indignant as he flashes forward to land on the railing just to the ninetale’s side. A mug that is utterly adorable under any circumstance somehow screwing up into an animal frown, blue-purple eyes narrowing, “ _I’m not a rodent_ ,” he seethes, his long tail snapping in annoyance, but you know it isn’t a very deep feeling, because you only feel scrapes of it—if anything, there’s an excitement in him. “ _I’m a deadly combination of swiftness and force_.”

Looks like you aren’t the only one trying to impress Meraviglia tonight.

“ _Oh no, I’m a-quiver with fear_ ,” the daemon say wryly, before turning red eyes away from the bristling Saoviz, and onto you. He considers you, and you’ve always gotten the impression that while he bickers and snarks with Sao until they’re both frowning and tense—he likes you, both versions of you. There’s a calm coolness about him that makes you want to be in his presence, and some logical part of you knows that it’s probably because he needs to balance Cat Grant—who is all fire, and temper, and passion.

“ _Hard night?_ ” He asks, with all the knowledge of what kind of night it was—you’d seen the CatCo helicopter lingering just at the edge of the fight. The alien you’d been fighting had been made up of what seemed to be glass, and it had taken a lot longer than usual to subdue him—he’d been angry about something, and had apparently decided that pummeling you into the ground was a good outlet for that anger. You didn’t agree, but then again, he didn’t ask.

“I’d say,” you hedge, feet touching down on the railing, before you hop off and land on the outdoor carpet that covers most of the cement. Meraviglia lowers himself onto all fours, and Sao scoffs and shoots off into the distance, acting like he isn’t lingering on the roof keeping watch. You’ve spent a lot of nights on this balcony, _seeking_ out those that live here, and more often than not, if you come by too late, Cat’s already gone to sleep, and Mera’s here to keep you company. He never asks why you come here, or why you stay once you learn Cat’s not awake, he just—keeps you company.

It isn’t more than a half-hour later that you’re lying on your back, looking out at the sky beyond the awning that covers the balcony. Mera’s stretched out behind you, not even commenting when your head ends up on his side, face pressed into his soft fur and the majority of his tails flopped over you, one insistently tickling just below your chin making you laugh. He’s stone stoicism acting like he _isn’t_ a big mush, but you never say anything—afraid it’ll break this, this _thing_ whatever it is.

“What’s your favorite constellation?” You ask quietly, combing fingers through the plush fur of his tails, lulled by the purr in his chest.

“ _The one with the stars_ ,” he says absently, and you tug out a single hair from his tail which makes him swat you in the face.

“Seriously, Mera, you have to have a favorite—I know Cat does,” because when you’re talking to him it’s always _Cat_ , never _Miss Grant_ , and you don’t know why you feel comfortable with the difference with what is essentially the woman’s soul.

“ _And how do you know of her favorites, Supergirl?_ ” He hums, smug pleasure sitting too easily on the fox’s face.

“We—talk,” you fumble, “A lot—you’re there, you know—know that we talk.”

“ _Indeed_ ,” he purrs, and laughs, a rumbling sound that has Sao pricking his ears toward you both from where he’s sitting on the edge of Cat’s bed—you never look in there yourself, but Meraviglia doesn’t seem to mind your daemon watching over his bond mate, despite how much they argue. You don’t cross those lines, because it’s different for daemons—the intent and meaning leagues away from what it would be if _you_ went through the glass doors, if _you_ sat at the edge of her bed.

“ _Canis Major_ ,” he says eventually, shattering your thoughts of the woman you can hear breathing only a handful of feet away—the little sounds she makes in her sleep, the rustle of the blankets around her body when she moves, the protective _feeling_ that lingers in you from Sao, from where he’s curled into his cape, able to feel the arch of Cat’s foot along his side.

“The dog?” You ask, because you hadn’t been expecting that, “Not the fox?”

“ _Supergirl, we can’t all be horribly predictable,_ ” he sighs, like you exasperate him, and he doesn’t say anything for a while, and you don’t prompt. “ _I understand Laelaps, the dog who will forever chase. To be unable to give that chase up, for whatever reason. It needn’t always be a fox, the Greeks are terribly literal sometimes; but something less tangible_. _Happiness? Recognition? Peace?_ ” You forget sometimes that Meraviglia has Cat’s poet’s heart, that they’re writers, and story weavers, and brilliant minds behind shrewd eyes and sarcasm.

The chase. You’ve never thought of it like that. Like everything you’ve wanted is just beyond your reach, and you’re always moving forward, trying to grab it. Is that how Cat feels? Did she build an empire because she’s chasing something? Has she found what she’s looking for? Is she still running?

“I hope you catch it, Mera, whatever you’re chasing.”

He hums, shoulders lifting with a breath before he goes slack and stretches a little more under your head. It’s well past midnight and you’re exhausted, you’ll just close your eyes for a minute— _just_ a minute—and then you’ll head home.


	3. though i don't know what tomorrow's bringing. ( cat )

You dream.

_You’re smaller than small and the tables seem larger than large—the walls echo and the floor slants. Not like it’s not supposed to, but like it’s always trying to make you fall._

_You do fall._

_You can hear your mother on the other side of the house—talking loudly, the click click of her bond mate’s nails on the hardwood floors making you anxious._

_“Not this time,” Meraviglia says at your side, small and fluffy and bright red—glowering from where he’s spread across your knees. His nose twitches and you know he’s trying not to scratch at the cut on his muzzle. “I promise, Kit, not this time.” He’s smaller than small too, and you want to tell him not to bother—that it hurts you when he hurts, that you feel the pounding of his heart against the insides of your own ribs._

_You remember your mother’s eyes whenever your vulpix rounded the corner on rounded paws, that little lift of her nose, the glower of her bond mate down a long black muzzle. You can’t imagine wanting anything other than Meraviglia, who tells you stories, and keeps you safe. Who levels your heart with his because he’s so much stronger than you are._

_He tells you that isn’t the case, but you’re not easily convinced._

_You’d been so thrilled when he settled a week ago—much later than everyone else in your grade._

_It didn’t matter to you._

_“Nothing’s wrong,” you promise him, fingers curled into the rust of his fur, he doesn’t complain about the grip, doesn’t wiggle or shy away—just bristles and shuffles closer to you, further onto your lap. “Everything’s fine.”_

_It isn’t—it really isn’t._

_Your father’s been dead for two years now—a long two years—and he’s your only comfort._

_The click click of nails draw your attention down the hall—darkness save the bright glow of reflective eyes…_

.

…you wake up.

Startling up from slumber with a thunderous heartbeat—something sharp and bright in your chest, like eyes in the dark. You can’t pin point where exactly you are at first—a cool breeze, a warm blanket, and—cream walls.

Your bedroom.

You can’t remember much of the dream—can’t remember more than eyes in the dark, and a burn on the tip of your nose. Running fingers through your hair you let your heart casually calm—lulling off into a normal beat while you wiggle your toes against a weight. The moon’s bright and even without your glasses you can see the pale fur of your bond mate on the balcony. His eyes bright red and watching you—he hasn’t moved, but you know his heart jumped in time with yours.

“ _Catherine?_ ” He asks softly, so softly you know it might just be inside you, a silent inquiry—and you shake your head, because you know he knows because of how his nose twitches. The little mark still visible after so many decades of much harder tribulations.

“Everything’s fine,” you say, and you tuck your brow a little at the repetition from your much younger self—smaller than small—and exhale. The weight on your toes is an opalescent rodent in a brilliantly red cape—tail tucked up over his nose, eyelids twitching. You wonder what he’s dreaming of—this isn’t the first time you’ve caught Supergirl asleep on your balcony.

 _“Rough night,”_ Mera supplies, a tail moving to drape over the superhero that cuddles into his side—a phantom pressure up your own side that makes your mind a little hazy. There’s none of the uncomfortable buzz that usually accompanies someone inadvertently brushing your daemon. You wonder if anyone’s ever told Kara—that her touch is a balm, instead of a blaze.

“Hm,” you hum, blinking away the sleep still muddling through your thoughts so that you might properly tuck in the rodent on your feet—he’s never actually made it to the bed before. The balcony with Mera and his own bond mate, the chaise lounge across the room, the edge of the dresser beside the bed—you imagine he’s been working up to this.

Surprisingly, you don’t mind.

It’s that silly little _flutter_ in your chest that lets you know you’d do much of anything for this stupid little vermin, and the woman he’s half of. You drape an edge of the blanket over him and aren’t terribly surprised when his eyes crack open and look up at you like you might not notice if he stays absolutely still.

“Make yourself at home, why don’t you,” you murmur, softer than soft, and his little face screws up in something of a grin. Whiskers twitching, and paws curling over the edge of the blanket to tug it more over him.

 _“Your mongrel bored her to sleep,”_ the daemon huffs, air jetting out of his nostrils to flutter the blanket until he scrambles to grab it again. All you can really see is the bright blue of his eyes—the amethyst just at his pupil crystalline and sharp.

“Mera can be rather long winded,” you agree, not wanting to make him fly off—you imagine his skepticism is what protects Kara’s tender heart, her bright hope. The pragmatism you almost recognize in his eyes, a skepticism that looks back at you in the mirror. Kara’s balance, curling contently at your feet. Looking over, Meraviglia’s already closed his eyes—absolutely ignoring you, though you know he can hear you.

Laying down, the cool air keeps you awake, but the warmth of your blankets easily try pulling you under again—it’s still too early for you to be Cat Grant, media magnate, still too early to pull all your layers properly into place. To be the person you’ve made over decades of trial and error—from that smaller than small girl hiding under a table, fearing the dark at the edge of the hall.

 _“Nightmare?”_ Saoviz—though that’s not what he answers to in this form—asks from the silence, and you swear you feel small fingers gripping your large toe through two layers of blanket. A vague comfort.

“Hardly,” you whisper back, because it _hadn’t_ been, not really. It was just an unpleasant memory that snuck up on you sometimes. Peeking around the corner when you least expect it—of a little girl who hadn’t much hope because she hadn’t known where to look. Inside, outside—far, far away.

 _“Hardly,”_ he intones in mimic, and you shove a toe rudely into his side.

“You’re being awfully rude for someone who is trespassing,” you observe, eyes closed and tucking yourself back under your blankets. Back to the moonlight and the figures curled on the balcony.

 _“You don’t have to lie,”_ God, he has that same pleading note as Kara, and you imagine he has the same big doe eyes—you’re luckily tucked away from them, because you know your traitorous heart will do all manner of unseemly things. _Fluttering_ , and such. _“We have nightmares too.”_

It’s not a non-sequitur, but it trails off and you wonder if there’s anything more.

 _“Krypton, mostly.”_ An admission you feel he’s struggling to make—it’s the bristle against the sole of your foot, the shift and then eerie stillness. _“—but the Phantom Zone too.”_ You don’t reach out, you’re not liberal with your touches, not like Kara, but you feel like you might not have to. Not when he settles, not when his paws wrap back around your large toe with a loose grip.

_“It’s less—when we’re not alone.”_

Fuck, your heart _flutters_ and something else in your chest aches for them—these darling aliens of yours, because in so many ways they _do_ belong to you. Abstract ways that don’t make sense in the light of day—but now? At night with only the moon for guidance, it’s easy to say, “Stay.”

Easier still to fall back asleep.

.

Morning coffee, morning headache—you’re not surprised when Supergirl and her Mew are gone when you’re apart properly for the day. Like they had never been there. The only proof your oddly warm feet, and the open balcony door.

 _“You’re being rather insufferable,”_ Mera grouses from where he’s draped himself across the living room couch—your son’s daemon flickering happily between an eevee and a rattata as she rolled all over the fox. Cadeau was old enough now that she should have already settled, but you weren’t worried—or concerned, or embarrassed—no matter how your mother tried to make you feel about the matter.

“Let’s not get into talks of pots and kettles,” you snap, making two sets of ears perk up, Cadeau puts paws up on the back on your couch, and you can’t even be mad when she gives you a grin. All lip and teeth, but your heart melts just a little more. You’re a damned polar ice cap in the age of global warming.

You’re fucked.

“Come over here,” you sigh, so very put upon, but Cadeau doesn’t care—pushing off and sprinting across the room until she can flourish again and land in your arms as a farfetch’d. Tucking her fuzzy head and beak into the side of your neck with a content sigh. “Carter! You’re going to be late.” Combing fingers through downy feathers, you wish your little boy would never grow up—that Cadeau would stay as she is until the end of time. Anything, everything—the kind of possibility that only belongs to children.

 _“He stayed up playing video games,”_ Mera mock-whispers, muzzle up on the back of the couch, imperious red eyes blinking lazily in the sunlight. All lazy energy and listless action—sometimes you just like leaving employees with him because they always are leagues more uncomfortable than when you’re also present. They _fear_ you, but Mera makes them feel something primal—all caves walls and lightning strikes.

It’s fantastic.

“We’re pretending we don’t know that,” you coo, still scratching through soft feathers—Cadeau purrs and preens. “Isn’t that right, dear heart?” She’s nodding, though you know she isn’t listening. Carter staggers out of his room and down the hallways—curls messier than usual, shirt askew, but the proof is in the tired look in his eyes. The squint at the sunlight, the little frown between his brows.

“Mom, have you seen—,” he sees Cadeau in your arms and exhales loudly. “Cad! We’re gonna be late!” The daemon in your arms bristles out of her pet induces stupor and wriggles until you let her free—morphing mid-air to a pidgey and fluttering across the room on agitated wings until she lands on Carter’s backpack. They’re sprinting to the door, and you long for the times that he was young enough that he liked you riding with him to school—but that was days, and weeks, and years ago.

“Bye mom!” Shouted as the door slammed shut behind him, not even allowing you a response.

 _“Absolutely ignored,”_ Meraviglia bemoans, looking absolutely unbothered.

“Oh, knock it off, we’re not even going to touch the fact that _you_ were with him playing video games.” You’d spotted them in passing as you’d walked from your office to the kitchen—lights off in Carter’s room, the glow of the television on both their faces. Carter explaining side-scrollers to the fox like he actually cared to play—but it was hardly a secret that your beast had the softest of spots of Carter.

“The box said he needed adult supervision,” the fox grins back, blinking lethargically at you, all nine tails limp and piling high on the couch.

Rolling your eyes, you gather your bag, check your hair in the mirror in the hall, and smack a few of Mera’s tails off the couch. “Get down, I just vacuumed.”

 _“Let us go pretend we don’t know all the things we very much do know,”_ he drawls, sliding off the couch primly and shaking his limbs loose. Lopping to your side, he rubs up against your thigh, tails twining around you as you wait for the elevator. Scratching your daemon behind the ears, you find contentment in the rumbling purr in his chest—the warmth in your own, and the bristle of something very much like awareness.

“We’re very good at pretending, aren’t we, you senile old fox?”

He rumbles a laugh, nudging his head further into your palm. _“The best.”_

**Author's Note:**

> o Kara—mew named Saoviz; Kryptonese for “unusual”  
> o Cat—ninetales named Meraviglia; Italian for “wonder”  
> o Carter—unknown named Cadeau; French for "gift"


End file.
